Livelier in London
by Dixie Cross
Summary: Darcy is engaged to Elizabeth, and when she comes to visit London to be fitted for her gowns, see her betrothed and help lift the spirits of her good friend, Georgiana, some unexpected people and unforeseen events force Darcy to prove just how much he loves his bride-to-be and just how hard change can be. Story put on hold for now. Will complete at later date.
1. Chapter 1

_Recap of Rosier at Rosings:_

_Elizabeth and Darcy fall in love in Kent, but not before another suitor named Sir Gregory nearly steals her away. Sir Gregory proves to be false about most things, except his feelings for Elizabeth. As the story ends, Elizabeth is not only engaged to and in love with Darcy, but a dear friend to his sister. Georgiana, however, has learned of her brother's duplicity in dealing with Jane and Mr. Bingley and struggles to forgive the brother she worshipped, despite Darcy's vow (and accomplishment of the vow) to mend his mistakes. In the epilogue, Darcy, Georgiana and a newly-arrived from Longbourn Elizabeth attend the theater and during the intermission, while Darcy is absent, the two women spot Sir Gregory. _

_This story takes place just before the epilogue. _

_Enjoy!_

_Livelier in London_

Change is inevitable; the only constant in an invariably variable world. But as Fitzwilliam Darcy stared across his desk at Sir Gregory, baronet of Cumberbatch, he knew that at least some things would never change. He would never trust the man sitting before him.

The hour was late. The fire in the grate diminished. Rain dashed against Darcy's study windows and the London streets beyond the cast-iron gates were nearly silent, almost as silent as the room wherein the two gentlemen sat. Sir Gregory had not spoken a word since his rushed entreaty to be heard, and Darcy had not spoken at all.

The baronet coughed and a carriage wheel splashed distantly on the sodden pavement outside. Darcy glanced down at his bureau drawer, seeing beyond the wood and thinking of the letter tucked away underneath a pile of bills.

Two weeks ago Darcy had received a thick, tattered envelope, and noticing the Cumberbatch seal on the front, had immediately thrown it away. For the rest of the day, he had gone about his business, with his usual fastidiousness and placid mien, convincing himself that the letter had been nothing more than a vain attempt at an apology. He had refused to think about it more, not when he had been out strolling with a taciturn Georgiana, not when he had taken a few too many touchés at his fencing club, and not when he was writing his nightly letter to Elizabeth. But that same evening, while nursing a slow, warm drink of contraband brandy, his defenses low and his curiosity and suspicions high, he had somehow found the letter back between his hands. And instead of having found an insincere apology to dismiss, Darcy had read the shocking news, or _claim_, since the revelation had come from the mendacious pen of Sir Gregory, that Lady Cynthia, the baronet's long estranged wife, had committed suicide, her body finally interred in the grave that had been empty for so many years, below the headstone that had proclaimed a lie while she had illicitly breathed and lived abroad.

Darcy would not put any lie, even a second fabricated death, beyond Sir Gregory's capable skills at deceit, but something in the letter had rang too true, the tale too poetic and messy to be anything but true, or mostly true. It was that lingering lack of knowledge, that curiosity for a complete understanding of how Lady Cynthia had actually finished her strange second act that had stayed Darcy's tongue tonight. He was a man known for his attention to detail, openly lauded and secretly mocked for his near obsession with thoroughness. And as such, he could not let those nagging questions about the Lady and Lord of Cumberbatch rest until he had interrogated the baronet vis-à-vis. Or so he told himself, determined not to give pause or sway to his other, darker reasons.

Truly it was beyond difficult to sit quietly across from a man for whom he had little tolerance and even less respect, a man who, only a couple months ago, had attempted to and nearly succeeded in wooing the woman he loved away from him. Suddenly, Darcy thought of another letter, of several other letters, carefully stacked and encased within a small cedar box beside his bed, the collection of hurried notes and breezy anecdotes, the sweet professions and amazing declarations of love from Elizabeth. She would be here tomorrow, after an absence of several weeks. The mere thought soothed Darcy. It was enough to reaffirm his resolve, and at last, slowly folding his hands into his lap and leaning back, he raised his eyes.

"You were incredibly foolish to come here Sir Gregory."

"Alas! I was hoping you would say incredibly brave—the two traits are remarkably similar."

"And remarkably dissimilar," Darcy sighed tiredly. "Might we dispense with your charms for the moment? They are useless on me, Sir Gregory. I've seen through them for too long."

"Then you know it's useless to tell me to dispense with them. I don't believe it's in my make-up to be completely sober and serious."

"I have no intention of telling you anything of the kind. Don't presume."

Sir Gregory smirked. "Well, at least you didn't tell me not to assume, old boy. We all know what that would make you and me into."

"Oh, I think you're sufficiently there without any allusion on my part."

"Another point on which we'll have to agree to disagree, Darcy."

A loud crackle from the fire snapped through the tense room. Sir Gregory flicked his head toward the sound. Darcy closed his eyes, checking back the angry flames within that had first erupted when this unexpected, unwanted visitor had barged into his study and were threatening to ignite anew. He blew out his breath to cool his mood.

"What do you want?" he asked his silent visitor.

"That is an interesting question for you to ask."

"Why?"

"You of all people know exactly what I want." Sir Gregory paused and Darcy tensed. "Or should I say who."

"Gregory," Darcy warned, clenching his fingers. "Enough."

"Enough? Is it? I only want to begin on common ground, and I believe the only thing we have ever seen with the same two eyes is the value of your lovely Elizabeth—"

"Miss Bennet," Darcy broke in with growl.

Sir Gregory nearly smiled. "Forgive me, the value of Miss Bennet."

"Miss Bennet, soon to be Mrs. Darcy—in case you have forgotten. I have learned that it is unwise to rely on the memory of a fool, and even more unwise to rely on the memory of a liar."

"Love has made you almost witty, Darcy. How quaint for you."

Darcy nearly smiled this time. "What do you want? And don't bother lying to me. You came at night, late enough so that my sister and all of the servants would be in bed, apart from my valet and butler—but early enough that I would be awake. You must have a particular reason to see me so secretively. Out with it. The fire's grown weak and so has my patience with you."

"Never one to mince words, something I've always admired." Sir Gregory shifted, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly and his head bowing down almost imperceptibly. He gazed back into the fire.

"Cynthia died."

"Figuratively, or literally this time?" Darcy dryly asked.

"I'm afraid literally, which I know you must believe, else you would not have allowed me to stay tonight." He looked back at Darcy and raised his eye brows. "Isn't that right?"

"So it's true?"

"As I wrote, she poisoned herself. Rather French of her if you ask me, but of course, she always was more continental than any English woman I have ever known."

"How thoughtful of her to solve your problem so nicely—she spared you from the necessity of faking her death for a second time, unless this is another brilliant ruse of yours."

"You give me too much credit, old boy. I'm not that clever."

"I didn't think you were."

"Didn't you? Come now, I applauded your frankness, you ought to offer me the same courtesy. Isn't that why I am here? You believed my letter, but not entirely? You wanted to know all the fact and facets. I wonder how frequently you forget how well I really know you. I can see through you as easily as you can see through me. For all your airs, Darcy, you are not afraid to get your hands dirty in pursuit of the whole truth."

Darcy pressed his lips together, choosing not to reply and the baronet abruptly stood. He started pacing the room.

"Come Darcy, ask me what you want to know. All the sordid details. All the horrific facts. Berate me. Tell me what you are actually thinking."

"Why?"

"Why what?" Sir Gregory said, spinning on his heel.

"Why me? Why did you write to me? The letter could have been intercepted or even accidently delivered into the wrong hands. You took a great risk in sending me such a tale by post. You are a fool and a gambler, but even that display of arrogance or ignorance, I really cannot say, was beyond the mark. So I ask you: Why the risk? Why me?"

"I thought you might be curious, but naturally curiosity requires a sort of imagination, of which you are utterly lacking. I miscalculated."

Darcy could take no more and he stood also, pressing his fists into his desk. "That did not hurt a bit, but lie to me again and I will force you from my home. Now answer me. Why did you send me that letter? You cannot be under the delusion that we are friends, if we ever were friends, not after your antics in Kent."

"I am sorry about that, Darcy. I had no other choice. It is too much to be as unlucky at cards as I am unlucky in love. Do not despise me for trying to win over Eliz—Miss Bennet. To the victors go the spoils, and the histories, and the posterity. Grant me some clemency, some space for repentance." Sir Gregory looked down at his hands and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. "I had to tell someone, someone who wasn't complicit or paid off. My brother won't even speak to me since he confronted me about my involvement in Cynthia's...first death."

"Fake death," corrected Darcy, sinking back down into his chair. "We only die once Sir Gregory, even the Lord."

"I'm surprised at you Darcy. You usually remember your bible stories so much better than me. There was one man, a mortal man, who came back to life, and as a mortal, we must assume he died, twice. Surely you did not forget Lazarus." Sir Gregory raised his head, wearing a rueful smile. "Lazarus—I envy him. I wonder what he did with his second chance at life. Did he change his ways for the better, or like most men, languish and revel in the same sins, putting off the day of reckoning until it was too late? Does any human being ever really change?"

Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose. He was in no mood to debate philosophies. The concentration and control required to endure Sir Gregory's presence for this long had taxed him to the brink of his strength. Sir Gregory's answer for this late night visit, and more importantly, his outrageous letter, had to be true. Darcy had never heard the baronet sound so human and humbled; he knew it was not another lie. Somehow the reality of his reasons deflated Darcy even more, leaving him with a sense of disappointment. He hadn't noticed it, but his muscles had been taut and his knuckles white. He had been preparing for a fight, and now bereft of that expectation, he was left without energy.

"That was not the reply I was expecting," Darcy mused, stretching his fingers.

"No? I suppose not. I hope you are relieved, even if relief is not at all what it is cracked up to be. I am far too familiar with it of late. To lay myself wholly bare that is all I felt when I heard of Cynthia's suicide—a great sense of relief."

"So I really was meant to be your confessor? You took all that risk, just to confess. Your guilt must be heavy indeed." Darcy shook his head. "How comical. You realize I loathe you."

"I realized you could think no less of me than you already did. And, yes, in my effort to win a sliver of your respect back, I will be frank. I hoped you would someday confide in your wife of my desire to be more honest and upstanding. She does not love me, I have accepted that, but I do not know if I can ever accept that she hates me."

Darcy felt his muscles begin to tighten again and a violent heat to rise up inside. Without saying another word, he pushed back onto his feet and walked around his desk to the door, grazing Sir Gregory's shoulder with his own. He ripped open the door and took a deep breath.

"I cannot absolve you, Sir Gregory, and I wouldn't even if I could. You should have chosen a more forgiving confessor."

Sir Gregory twirled his hat in his hands and walked toward Darcy. He stopped right in front of him and tilted his chin. "Our pet name for you at university was priest."

"Yes, I remember," Darcy coldly replied. "But priests don't marry, and as I know you will always remember, I am."

Sir Gregory bit down on his jaw and jammed his hat onto his head. "Good night, Darcy."

"Good riddance, Sir Gregory."

Darcy watched the baronet fly down the hallway and disappear into the night. The moment he heard the swift clatter of hooves on wet ground, he marched to his desk, yanked open the drawer and flung the baronet's letter into the starving blaze. The embers slowly ate away at the paper and Darcy did not turn away until every last sheet had been burned into ash.

Tomorrow Elizabeth would be coming into town. The thought calmed him again. He needed Elizabeth, in a way and with a completeness that he had never known before. He would do anything for her. Give anything for her. Be anything for her. He just needed to see her. She would help with Georgiana, who had become so altered a creature that he hardly recognized her anymore. Sir Gregory's words came swiftly back to his mind. Does any human being ever really change?

"Of course," Darcy answered to an empty room and a dying fire. "I know I have."

The fire sputtered and for a moment, he thought he heard the charcoaled wood hiss, "No."

_Note: Next chapter will be the theater scene from the epilogue in Rosier, but from Darcy's perspective (as will this entire story be from his POV). _

_Also, I know some have mentioned (rightly so) that Darcy did not undergo that much of a change in Rosier. I realized that halfway into it, and that lack of transformation is one of the reasons I toyed with and ultimately decided to write not just another P&P variation, but a sequel. _

_Finally, for all the Gregory haters: Don't despair. He features largely as a catalyst, and his presence will shift and shrink as the chapters go on. At least, that is my plan. _

_Cheers and happy reading and reviewing. _


	2. Chapter 2

Darcy did not enjoy the theater. If it were his choice, a play would only ever be read, preferably in silence and solitude. It was difficult for him to be drawn into the illusion of play acting, the suspension of disbelief an active contradiction to his temperament. Rarely could he forget the rigging hanging down from the stage ceiling, the woodenness of the set pieces, or the painfully obvious lack of gentility in the faces of the actors. Not to mention the stuffiness of the venue, the hot lamps and masses of body heat that turned an expansive dome into a Roman bath house.

If forced to go out and sit somewhere in miserable, human humidity, the opera or symphony were his preferences. Music possessed enough power to compel him to ignore the trappings of the stage. The singers were not mere actors, the requirement of their jobs nothing more than speaking words that any sufficiently literate idiot could recite. They were human instruments, their voices becoming one with the orchestra. It was a skill he did not possess, and therefore admired.

Fortunately, on this particular night, Darcy did not need the addition of symphonic strains to transport him to a higher plane of experience. He was only vaguely aware of the actors strutting across their hollow planks, even more indifferent to the skill of one of the players who was lauded for her talent. The warmth radiating out from the insufferable audience barely touched the fever that already flushed his skin. All he noticed and all he cared to notice was the way Elizabeth's curls fluttered against her neck, or the slope of her dress as it descended from her shoulder down across her body and onto the floor, or the small dimple that appeared as _she_ watched the play and_ he_ watched her. Since her arrival yesterday she was all he saw and heard and sensed. Her presence as soothing as it was evocative.

The scene ended and Darcy leaned over to whisper something to his bride. She blushed and made some saucy response. She could turn even the most mundane speeches into witty repartees. Darcy was unaware of the stir he was creating as he laughed and flirted, unseeing of the several opera glasses turned in his direction and deaf to the torrent of gossip rasping behind every hand and into the ears of curious neighbors.

And then Georgiana spoke, in a mulish aside, and his moment of bliss was cut short. The sensation of grasping for something and having it ripped out of his reach, the object of his desire slipping just beyond his fingertips, was becoming all too familiar for him. And it was making him less patient, quicker to anger, especially with Georgiana.

He had never been a man of volatile passion, his feelings running deep and still, but as the day of his nuptials approached, those tranquil forces were being disrupted, and so too was his peace. Elizabeth had already wrenched enough self-control from him, intentionally and unintentionally, especially during those dark days at Rosings when he had doubted he would ever win her hand, and feared he would lose it to another. Months ago he had accepted that he would never know the same sort of uninterrupted quiet he had so thoughtlessly enjoyed before Elizabeth had entered his life, not with the sound and fury that was her family, but he had thought that he would not have to endure the same cacophony of noise from his sister. But he was reminded time and time again that his sister, for some unknown reason, had it out for him, that since the announcement of his engagement she had somehow been gripped by the same insipidity which characterized Elizabeth's younger sisters. His sister said something else and he reclined towards her, hardly aware of what he had said to her thus far, and whispered angrily into her face.

"What do you want me to do Georgiana?"

"I don't want anything from you, Fitzwilliam. I only want to go home."

"That is absurd. Are you feeling alright?"

"I am perfectly well. I just would rather be away from the crowds tonight."

Darcy glanced at Elizabeth, but she was eagerly avoiding his eye. He wished he could escape with her, leap off this balcony and disguise themselves in costume. Perhaps actors did have a use. Once again Georgiana complained and Darcy, taking a deep breath, pushed back his chair. He raised his eyebrows at his sister, masking his annoyance with indifference. It was pointless to react to her; provocation was her sole aim.

"Georgiana we are not going home early. Elizabeth is clearly enjoying the play, and if that were not enough, it was at your request that we chose this theater, instead of the symphony. I cannot understand your fickleness—it is unbecoming."

"I am not asking for you or Elizabeth to leave with me. There is ample time for the carriage to take me home and return to pick you up."

"Are you really suggesting that I permit you to travel at night—alone—just to satisfy your whim? The very idea is unconscionable."

Georgiana sucked in her breath and flipped her head away. She was as theatrical as any of the actors gesticulating and gawking on the stage tonight. Darcy could not fathom when or how she had acquired such flamboyant histrionics.

"You are determined to keep me here?" she grumbled.

"I am determined to keep you safe," he growled.

Suddenly a gentle hand caressed his arm. The touch was so tender, in direct opposition to the harsh irritation coursing through his veins, that it startled him. But looking at Elizabeth, the source of the touch, her face suffused in a pretty glow from the theater lights, some of that aggravation seeped out of him. He folded his hand over hers.

"Perhaps you could benefit from a walk around the foyer?" she asked. "I am perfectly content to stay here. Georgiana will keep me company."

As always a pleasant heat prickled along his flesh at Elizabeth's closeness. With Georgiana's bristly mood aggravating his own, the contrasting serenity flowing out from his betrothed made him crave her presence all the more. Again he wished he could abscond into absolute solitude with her, basking in her warmth since he knew he could not yet capture and claim it completely for his own. But he could not ignore Elizabeth's request forever, and he understood its necessity. Georgiana adored Elizabeth. It was likely she would succeed with his sister where he had miserably failed. Without thinking, he drew nearer and glided his lips along her skin, whispering thank you as he stood and quickly departed.

Packs of people crowded the theater foyer, the social climbers straining their necks to get a good look at the backs upon which they would have to stand in order to achieve their lift in status, the true aristocrats oblivious to the aspiring onlookers, and every glance and expression in between on one face or another. Darcy nodded at a few gentlemen from his club, waved at an elderly couple, dear friends of his father's, and skillfully dodged some overenthusiastic acquaintances—one who he knew was a sycophantic well-wisher and the other a desperate earl in need of an investment.

After a delicate weaving through the sticky throng, Darcy cloistered himself near a propped-open door, his tall frame blending in with the shadows and shades of the guests. His vantage point afforded him an almost panoramic view of the house, and he relaxed into a voyeuristic torpor as the parade of plebian pomp and circumstance passed before him.

The spring night leaked into the hot room in lazy drafts of wind. He was drinking in the slightly cooler air, negligently toying with his cufflinks and wondering what Elizabeth was saying to convince Georgiana that her brother was not the devil incarnate, when a man slithered up next to him and petitioned him for some spare change.

Darcy rolled his eyes and kept polishing his pristine cufflink.

"Some spare change, mister," the intruder repeated.

"What do you want?" Darcy glanced at the filthy palm opened up to him and lifted his gaze to the face. It was almost as dirty. "And what on earth have you been doing with yourself, Sir Gregory? Rolling in the mud with the other swine?"

The baronet smiled, his blue eyes brighter against the dirt powdering his face. "My horse threw me."

"What a wonderful beast. Point him out to me at the next hunt and I'll buy him a bushel of carrots."

"He prefers apples."

"Well, I'll buy him a crate if he does it again."

The baronet chortled and some of the nearby bourgeoisie women stopped their conversation to squint their greedy eyes at the two gentlemen. Darcy saw the panting interest and a surge of contemptuous superiority rose up in his breast. He despised the sweating adoration of gossip mongers. He roved his eyes carelessly over their two seasons' past fashion and the cherry red blushes snaking up their necks. The gapers quelled under his severe, subtle sneer and quickly turned away.

"And what do you like for a treat old boy?" Sir Gregory chuckled softly, beating the dirt from his clothes and shaking his head.

"Excuse me?"

Sir Gregory waved his hand at the three ladies who had been staring at them, all of whom were now huddled tightly together, as though fearing the wrath of some oncoming storm.

"I mean to treat you for your incredible knack at dispensing with the dispensable. Those poor women—clearly none of whom hail from good breeding or good blood—will never again dare to look a person of your station in the eye. You have done us all a service. If England is to conquer the world, we need to stamp out this dastardly obsession with democracy. Can you imagine if we fell the way of France? Upstarts like those gauche women wielding the sword and lording over the likes of you and me? Having the audacity to wonder why two gentlemen are laughing in a public place? Yes, yes, let's put a stop to those Jacobeans before they get ideas. Who knows? Next time they might actually smile at you Darcy."

Darcy heard the bite in the baronet's words and shifted uncomfortably against the wall. The women walked away, their heads bowed a touch. Something like shame nipped at Darcy, but he refused to be goaded into guilt by Sir Gregory. He shrugged it off and lifted his chin.

"You are full of words as usual, and as usual, they are nothing but noise, signifying nothing."

"Tales told by idiots can still be true." Sir Gregory clapped his dress coat one last time and a billow of dust burst into Darcy's face. "And I would much rather be called an idiot than a snob."

Darcy coughed. "Don't fool yourself. You're both."

Sir Gregory laughed some more and smacked Darcy on the back. "I was. I was. Fortunately your Miss Bennet—see, how well I remember your strictures from the other night—cured me of that. She should have made you sweat a bit more, Darcy. Humility would have done you some good. I know it has me."

"Humility and you are as incompatible as wax and water."

"Don't be so sure," he said, spinning away from the wall. Reaching into his coat, he fanned his face with a letter before stuffing it into Darcy's breast pocket. "Imagine what I would have done with that if I had not been a humbled man."

With that cryptic remark he parted the crowd, striding through the fretting masses. Darcy frowned at Sir Gregory's comical posturing, glowering when the baronet stopped in front of the three women who had fled from Darcy's scowl and made an elaborate bow.

"He is right at home here," Darcy muttered to himself. "Georgiana and he should start their own troop of performing gentry."

Darcy was still frowning and musing nothings to himself, as he withdrew the crumpled letter from his pocket. Before he could read it, the lights flickered and the signal for the close of intermission sounded. The theater guests in the foyer immediately began to thin, mulling back into the auditorium or up into the balcony seats. Darcy knew he did not have time to bother with the letter from Sir Gregory, nor the interest or privacy to read it right away, but he stole a glance at the handwriting on the envelope as he pushed his way up the stairs and nearly tripped over the wealthy widow of Bartham's Place. He knew that penmanship—it resembled his own, but with the flare and curvature of a more slender, feminine hand. What was his sister thinking? Had she actually written a letter to the baronet of Cumberbatch?

Darcy's heart sped up and a white heat licked his insides. He balled the letter and jammed it back into his coat pocket. Counting down from one hundred, he raced up the stairs, briskly excusing his hurry as he rushed past the dwindlers on the stairs. He took five deep breaths before he forced an expression of ennui back onto his features and stepped into his box.

Elizabeth and Georgiana were both surveying the audience below, with very disparate expressions on their faces. Elizabeth's pale skin appeared almost translucent, her bright eyes sparkling with a strange gleam, while his sister's cheeks were alive with a deep crimson. Darcy studied Georgiana in one, sharp look and she sunk deep into her chair, nodding meekly at him. He could discern nothing from her downcast gaze, but the letter suddenly rested heavily against his chest. What had Georgiana been up to?

Sweeping his eyes in the other direction, he smiled falsely at Elizabeth. Her returning grin quivered, and as he sat down behind her, he could see the faint tremble of her entire body. If possible, the letter weighted even more leadenly in his pocket.

He hesitated, his hand wavering near Elizabeth's shoulder, debating whether he should beg her to come with him, or excuse him for a moment. He waited too long. The theater was plunged into darkness and he dropped his hand. Dark thoughts churned unchecked and unanswerable in Darcy's mind and the tenebrous ambiance of the hushed theater became almost palatable. He heard the catch of Elizabeth's breath and a sigh escape from his sister. His own lungs had stilled, and he had to remind himself to exhale.

He stared at Elizabeth, inhaling her scent, tracing the hazy outline of her profile and doggedly refusing to acknowledge his sister, or her contraband letter, for the remainder of the hot, stuffy night. The curtains danced up, the actors bounded out, and every so often Darcy tried to remember that he was supposedly watching a comedy.

_Note: Thanks for the readers and reviewers. I am trying to post a chapter once a week. I'll be honest and pleading, if you like (or even if you don't) please review. They do spur me on to be more expeditious with my updates, although I can't promise the updates will be any better or worse. _

_Also, thanks for those who review but can't follow the story through. I understand and I laughed at your frankness. When I first started reading fanfiction, I never even glanced at WIPs. So, for all of you who do follow works-in-progress, an extra special thank you. _

_The Shakespearean quotes are from Macbeth. I'm not sure about the Jane Eyre allusions, but there is an element of generic, Gothic romanticism here. _

_Random FYI: I am currently also finalizing another P&P story that I hope to publish on Amazon in the near future. I will post it under my Sophie Rae account in the next month, because that's the name I use for my Amazon publications and for non-WIPs. _

_Finally (and I'm not certain who this applies to) I wouldn't be opposed to adding a chapter or two to my last GWTW what-if, but I have no idea where I would want to take that story. So if you do have an idea, feel free to pester me or prod me. You may inspire me. I liked where it ended, but I can't say I felt it was the ending. And thanks for the reviews on that one. I have no idea how many crossover readers I have, so I thought I would just throw that out there, or here. _

_Cheers and Happy Olympics and Valentine's Day. _

_Next chapter: The letter (another letter!)_


End file.
